


The world is still a blur but your smile shines through

by Artikbear



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Slice of Life, different ships for every chapter, or my idea of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-22 16:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21079502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artikbear/pseuds/Artikbear
Summary: Mornings, soft and worn down around the edges.





	1. Buck/Jackal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackal can’t remember exactly when he fell asleep. Or in love, for that matter.

There is a blanket wrapped around his torso. It's well-worn and smells vaguely familiar, so Jackal nuzzles into it without thinking, enjoying the feeling of soft fabric against his skin.

Then he slowly opens his eyes with a frown, blinking under the pale morning light, and sits up. His memories from last night is hazy, thanks to too many hours of staying awake, but he doesn’t remember lying down on this particular couch to sleep. And he definitely doesn’t remember bringing a blanket with him. Not that he owns a red plaid patterned woollen blanket, in the first place.

What he remembers doing is sitting in an armchair in the lounge, half-heartedly reading a journal—on recent development in criminology, quite interesting but not enough to distract him from his miserable state—waiting for another unbearably long night to pass. Alone.

The armchair in question is currently occupied by one sleeping Canadian, who is snoring lightly with his arms crossed and head thrown backward in an angle that can't be comfortable. It explains the blanket magically materializing overnight, and the sudden change of his position, and Jackal has no choice but to smile at the mental image of Buck trying to move his unconscious body, his long legs dragging on the floor due to their height difference. The fact that he hasn't gained his consciousness at all, not even once, during all that manhandling is both impressive and worrisome, but right now his attention is solely focused on the man in front of him. Who might be drooling a little. Jackal finds it adorable.

He is thinking about returning the exact same favor when Buck stirs in his seat, and proceeds to stretch his limbs with a massive yawn. He groans and runs his palm down his face, his usual morning ritual, as if he's literally trying to wipe off sleepiness, but he still looks a little dazed afterwards. Jackal lets out a chuckle.

"Good morning. You look like you slept terribly."

Buck only grunts as a response, and closes his eyes. He is generally a jovial man by nature, but early mornings make him grumpy enough to compete with Thatcher, much to Jackal's amusement. When he opens his eyes again, they are narrowed with accusation.

"And whose fault is that? I know I snore fucking loudly but you didn’t have to run away."

Jackal shrugs, sheepishly. He _ does _ snore sometimes, but that's not the reason he escaped his room to come here last night. He doesn't mind it in the least, rather the opposite—it's reassuring to have a constant reminder that he's not alone fighting his nightly demons. Just as it is nice to have a warm body next to his. He sleeps better when Buck's around, period, but he's afraid it might not be the same for Buck.

"No, it's not that, it was… one of those nights, and I didn’t want to ruin your sleep schedule."

He gets restless when he can feel his sleep looming near but can’t quite _get there_, despite his body being increasingly weary, and he's prone to shifting around on the bed, feels the need to get out of the bed to pace. And Buck has a keen sense of hearing, even in his sleep—hence how he can sleep through his own snoring remains a mystery—so Jackal thought it would be best to leave the room quietly and let him sleep. But apparently he's not happy with this decision.

"I don't care if you wake me up, Ryad, as long as you're still there. What I _ don’t _ like is waking up to find out you’re gone, and not knowing fucking where to," Buck mutters, sounding a bit petulant, but the sentiment behind his straightforward words is clear. The man’s devotion to keep him in his sight is only getting stronger over time, unlike his first speculation that he’d soon get weary, to which Jackal feels—surprised, but grateful, really. It's nice to have someone who is always looking out for you, even if he's still struggling to get used to it. He's been a loner without ties for too long.

"I'm sorry, _mi amor._ I really am."

Buck rolls his eyes at this casual use of endearment, but his tone for next words is much softer. He’s not a hard man to appease. "No, it's alright, I get why you had to. And it's okay to go and get some air if you need it, just… don’t disappear without telling me, that's all."

"I promise I won't," he replies, even though he knows it won't be easy to change old habits. He has to try, he treasures this thing going on between them too much to risk it by upsetting Buck repetitively with the same issue.

"Okay, then, we officially reached an agreement," says Buck, as solemnly as he can manage, only to be betrayed by his own grin, his good humor returning. His lopsided smile is interrupted by another yawn he hurriedly tries to stifle.

No, he treasures _ this man, _he thinks, this man who was willing to give up the comfort of his bed for his sake, who won't let it show how tired he is lest he feels sorry for it.

"Come here, Sébastien," he says, patting his thigh, and Buck, confused at first, takes the hint and saunters up to lie down on the couch with his head on Jackal's lap. When he buries his fingers in the short hair that prickles his palm and begins massaging the scalp, Buck hums in encouragement, reminding Jackal of a big cat purring.

It's peaceful, almost unbelievably so. The base is still mostly asleep; early risers should be up by now but probably they're on their morning routine in their own rooms, and no one will bother them here anytime soon. The morning sun colors the contour of Buck's face in warm hue, and Jackal follows its touch with his fingers, over the prominent ridge of his nose, across his thickly bearded cheek. Buck turns his head to kiss Jackal's palm lazily.

He begins to doze off after a while, his eyes drooping shut. Jackal quits playing with his face to let him have his much needed rest, and if he's lucky, he might be able to get some more sleep too, lulled by Buck's soft breathing, anchored by the solid weight on his leg.

Then he realizes that he is smiling, has been for quite a while now, and wonders how is it that this man can persuade him into believing everything is going to be alright without even using words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering adding more chapters to this one, with different pairings or characters, but not sure of which at this point. I'm open for suggestions :3


	2. Doc/Montagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doc calls Montagne in one cold morning.

Doc realizes once again that he really isn't built for this kind of climate, as a violent shiver runs through his entire body. He used to think British weather was bad enough as it was, always overcast and chilly, making him miss the sun-bleached beaches of Côte d'Azur like a parched man missing a sip of water, but late November mornings in Nuuk, Greenland are something else entirely. 

His phone buzzes once and he gives up on pretending to be asleep, when in reality the freezing air that creeps up on him no matter how thoroughly he buries himself under the cover woke him up at least ten minutes ago. He checks his phone, and the screen that’s too bright for his bleary eyes informs him that it’s barely past five in the morning, and he has two new messages.

One is from Jackal, as expected. _ Four hours, _ it says, and while it's not the most satisfying answer, at least it'll allow him to function. He should check with Buck later to see if their words match, though. It's not that he doesn't trust Jackal, rather he _ knows _ his tendency to leave certain things out, like an wild animal that hides its wound so it won't get cast out of the pack or viewed as an easy prey. Jackal is aware of the fact that his fitness for the job is constantly being questioned and evaluated, so Doc doesn't blame him for his defensiveness; him agreeing to do this at all is a huge improvement over his former dismissive attitude. 

Another one that just came in is from Montagne, and it sobers him up pretty quickly. _ Call me when you can, _ it reads, without further information, and suddenly his breath is quickening. Did something happen to him? Or to someone else? As far as he knows they're the only ones who are out on a mission, but then how can he be sure, when he’s thousands of kilometers away from the base?

Just before he almost trips himself in his hurry to call him, another message follows. _ Don't worry, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to talk with you. _

Doc sighs in relief, little embarrassed that he is _ this _ predictable, waits until his heartbeat slows down to reasonable pace and puts on his clothes for a short walk. The walls are thin, and he doesn’t want to wake people up earlier than they have to; it was a long week for all of them. 

Montagne picks up his call in less than five seconds. Hearing his voice for the first time in days feels like the sweet taste of the air taken in gulps after diving too deep, for too long. 

“Did I wake you?” he asks apologetically, but Doc is too busy relishing in his presence, basking in it, and almost misses his cue to answer.

“No, you didn’t. I blame the weather for that. It’s cold enough to get frost bites in bed, I’m willing to call this a medical crisis.” 

“Are you?” Usually he isn’t this much of a complainer, so Montagne’s amused tone isn’t really surprising. Doc frowns to no one in particular. Six, maybe.

“Yes, I mean it. And what annoys me even more is that I’m the only one who’s bothered. Frost keeps saying it’s unusually _ warm _ here this year and Tachanka is even worse, I swear he sleeps only in his underwear, when I’m considering sleeping with my _ coat _ on.”

Montagne laughs good-naturedly at his faux indignation, and the sound of it thaws him out, a little. He looks up at the sky that’s still a shade too dark to be called blue. His breath comes out in puffs, like small clouds.

“But enough talking about Tachanka’s sleeping attire. How are things there?”

“Nothing’s out of ordinary. It doesn’t mean everything is peaceful, but you already know it.”

Doc snorts. "I do. Has anyone maimed anyone?"

"No, but there was a close call."

"Let me guess. Someone provoked Caveira again."

"Smoke made a bet with Mozzie and dared him to switch her face paint with mayonnaise," he confirms, and Doc briefly wonders if Montagne can somehow sense how scandalized his facial expression is because he sounds like he's enjoying being the one who's telling him this, behind his serious tone. "She wanted to make a necklace out of his fingers. Both of theirs, actually."

"But she didn't?"

"Gridlock intervened." 

Doc fights back a desire to pinch his nose dramatically but the situation definitely calls for it.

"God, why do I work with those idiots. Can't we get Six officially ban Smoke from making bets?"

"Not if Thatcher has any say in it. He'd prefer him being idiotic off the missions rather than on them."

Doc sighs because he has to agree. Also, his hand has started to get numb and he is fiercely lamenting his past decision not to bring any gloves. He switches the hand holding the phone to stick it into the pocket of his coat, doubting it would be of much help.

“How about you, Gilles? Is everything alright? You said you wanted to talk with me.”

“Yes, and I was quite literal about it,” replies Montagne, with a hint of smile in his voice. “Everything is fine, I just needed this. Listening to you talk. The base isn’t same without you.” 

His words hold more sincerity than Doc is ready to face at this obscene hour, and it is just so _ him _ Doc has to take a deep breath to ensure that he’s getting enough air; he feels light-headed, from being so fond of him, from missing him really, although as a medical expert he should know it’s an imaginary symptom. The tips of his ears go from frozen to warm with enough speed to break a thermometer, the cold long forgotten.

“I’ll be back in three days, sooner if I can help it. And I promise, if anyone tries to stop me or slow me down, I’ll show them why they shouldn’t mess with a guy holding a scalpel,” he tells him gravely, like he means it, because of fucking course he means it. Montagne chuckles. 

“Calm down, Gustave. I can survive a day or two more if I have to, but you rushing things won’t help.” And Doc has to wonder how he does it, sounding like he’s smiling warmly and dead serious at the same time. “Don’t worry about me, or the others, because I won’t let anything bad to happen. Just focus on finishing your job and come back home safe.”

_ Home, _ he says, so naturally, and who is he to disagree when it feels like his heart has never left the place, like it’s the only place he’ll ever dream of returning? So for once he stops fantasizing about sunny beaches with breathtaking views in favor of that bleak, miserable piece of land with the love of his life waiting for him, and just nods, translates the motion into a soft _ okay _ when he realizes Montagne can’t see it, and Montagne hums once, satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested Doc/Montagne but everything I write turns super self-indulgent at this point.


End file.
